Steele Masquerade
by SteeleImaginary
Summary: A story in episode form, set late in the second season. Laura and Steele travel to New Orleans at Mardi Gras to solve a murder. Originally posted last year. Re-issued in honor of the 30th Anniversary and the return of the series to broadcast TV on MeTV.
1. Act One

**Author's Note:**

This fic is an experiment in writing an ordinary episode of this series - to learn how the mystery plotting and fun of solving a puzzle underpins the character stuff we all love so much.

I've structured the story as if it were an episode: four acts, five to eight scenes per act, with action building to each act break. There is a mystery with multiple twists, a mixture of comedy and drama, and moments that advance the ongoing romantic storyline.

Like a real teleplay, I describe only what the camera can see, and the emotions/thoughts that the actors could reasonably be expected to portray - there is less interior dialogue and less description of the environment than you will find with most fan fic. Dialogue and dramatic action do most of the storytelling work.

I've set this story in the latter half of season 2. In fact, if it would have aired at the time dictated by the story, it would replace "Molten Steele".

* * *

**FADE IN**

"You're just going to let him get away with the necklace," Laura declared, with more than a hint of sarcasm.

"And what would you have me do," Steele replied.

They stood in the dim light cast by a single street lamp on a crisp, cloudless night – Laura in jeans and black sweater, Steele in a well-worn leather jacket. The lamp, the street, the sidewalk, had all seen better days, as had the whole neighborhood, truth be told.

"Defend my honor," Laura stated evenly. "Go after the little punk."

Steele laughed now, recognizing the game and refusing to take the bait. Laura smiled at his recognition.

"Don't you think you're taking this all a little too seriously," Steele said, maneuvering them both to an open place in the crowd. "The kid was what, ten? And don't get me started on the quality of that necklace."

"I had it first," Laura said plainly, raising her voice to compete with the cheers and cries of the surging crowd as the next parade float came into view.

As the float edged closer Laura waved her arms in the air and gleefully shouted with the throng, "Throw me something, mister!" Shiny plastic beads in a fantastic variety of colors rained down upon the Mardi Gras parade-goers. A red necklace whizzed past Laura's outstretched hand, just out of reach. With his height advantage, Steele grabbed it with ease and graciously offered it to a small girl who suddenly materialized at his side. "I saw that," Laura teased.

The float groaned to a full stop and the crowd rushed forward towards the barricades. Near the rear of a brightly decorated platform that crowned the float's upper deck, a costumed man wearing a purple mask twirled a clutch of white beads around the index finger of his left hand. Taking a swig of his beer, the man feigned nonchalance, as if his entire purpose in this staged performance was _not_ to distribute favors to the people below. Taunting the crowd, he pulled one long strand from the clutch and extended his arm, making eye contact through the narrow slits of his mask with one member of the crowd and then another. He flicked his wrist as if to fling the beads to their intended destination and then refused to release the prize at the last moment.

Steele noticed a four-year old boy, positioned by his father on a makeshift platform near the top of a wooden ladder, watching the man with rapt attention. Each time the man extended his arm as if to throw, the boy wore an expression of delight, certain it was his turn to win favor. Each time the man pulled back and refused to throw, the boy was devastated. Steele knew the man would continue his act for as long as the float remained in one place, or as long as the crowd remained tantalized and amused by the tease, but the boy was another story. The boy was taken in by the act every time.

"This is growing a bit tiresome, Laura," Steele said. "Can't we move on?"

"I suppose," Laura replied, looking at her watch. "Martin said he would meet us at Lee Circle at the end of tonight's parade to explain why he called us down here, but there does seem to be some sort of delay."

"I haven't eaten since Los Angeles," Steele said, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "And I wasn't expecting New Orleans in early March to rival Dublin in cold and damp."

As they picked their way to back of the crowd, the parade began moving again. A long strand of white beads soared overhead and came to rest on a stretch of hurricane fence that paralleled the sidewalk. Steele swiped the trinket and handed it to Laura with a flourish. "For you," he pronounced.

"Why Mr. Steele," she smiled. "I thought you'd never."

CUT TO:

* * *

An hour later Laura and Steele faced a nervous young man, Martin Bailey, across a small table in a darkened dive several blocks off Canal Street. "I wish I could have taken you somewhere grander," the man began, fidgeting in his plastic chair as he took in the surroundings, "but with the events of the past few days I felt we had to meet somewhere that we wouldn't be spotted."

"This certainly fits the bill," Steele said, perusing a laminated menu with a conspicuous cigarette burn on the lower right corner.

"Mr. Steele and I understand your caution, Martin," Laura interrupted. "And we're not much for ceremony at times like these."

Steele leaned across the table. "Yes, but now that we're here, don't you think it's time you filled us in on the exact nature of the times we might be dealing with."

"Certainly, Mr. Steele. My apologies," Martin replied, absently fingering his tie as he spoke. "Wednesday, two days ago, I received word at my law office that Jim and Leslie Calhoun, two of my dearest friends here in New Orleans, were found dead in their home." Martin handed a copy of the _Times Picayune_ to Laura. It was neatly folded to the obituary page and bearing a photo of the young couple in happier days. "Leslie was a brilliant law student," Martin said. "I wouldn't have survived Contracts without her. And after law school, once she met Jim, we all became fast friends – nearly inseparable."

"I'm very sorry for your loss," Laura said, quickly scanning the page and passing it to Steele.

Martin continued. "I was shocked, as you might imagine, but assumed that it was some random accident – carbon monoxide poisoning or, at worst, a burglary gone terribly wrong. I was grateful that they weren't leaving a child orphaned. It's funny the way one's mind works at these moments."

"Yes," Steele said, somewhat absently. "It is odd."

Laura looked at Steele closely but couldn't decipher his thoughts. Turning her gaze back to Martin, she encouraged him to continue with his story.

"Yesterday, I learned the police ruled it a murder. That's when I knew something was really wrong."

"And you began to fear for your own life," Steele surmised.

"No," Martin exclaimed. "You don't understand. Look here." Martin suddenly sprung up and grabbed the newspaper from Steele's hand, unfolding the paper to the reveal the front of the Metro section. "The police believe Leslie caught Jim with another woman, murdered him in a passionate rage, and then turned the gun on herself. That's when I knew there was a terrible conspiracy."

"A conspiracy Martin. Aren't we skipping a few steps here?" Steele questioned, repossessing the newspaper and examining the full color photo of the Calhoun's home encircled with yellow crime scene tape.

Laura shared a measure of Steele's skepticism but endeavored to keep her own doubts under wraps. "You'll have to excuse Mr. Steele's brusque manner this evening, Martin. It's not the general policy of the Steele Agency to put our clients on trial." Laura caught Steele's eye, then turned back to Martin, continuing, "Please, finish telling us about your friends."

Martin was temporarily placated. "There's not much more to tell, frankly. Leslie would never have done such a thing. It's that simple. Someone must have murdered them both, and the police are covering it up. As soon as I realized that, I called you, Laura."

Just as Laura was about to respond, Steele interjected. "Would you excuse Miss Holt and I for a moment, Martin. Thank you." Steele stood up from table and gestured to the far corner of the room.

"Laura, let's make our apologies and get out of here. This man is clearly delusional."

"Martin graduated near the top of our class at Stanford and sailed through Tulane Law School," Laura responded. "He is by no means delusional and I intend to hear him out. Certainly you don't contend that every homicide detective you've ever encountered was on the up and up."

"No, of course not…," Steele stammered.

"And New Orleans has one of the most corrupt police forces in the country," Laura declared forcefully, taking a step back towards the table. Three heads at the bar turned in their direction.

Steele grabbed Laura's arm and signaled for her to keep her voice down. "All the more reason," he said quietly, releasing her arm and gesturing to the men at the bar. "All the more reason for us to politely decline this case. We have no idea what we're dealing with here. The culture, the rituals, the personal intrigue are all completely foreign to us. There must be dozens of perfectly competent detectives in the local yellow pages."

With a smile Laura broke eye contact, strode to the table to grab her purse, and crossed back to Steele. Unzipping her bag, she deposited the keys to the rental car in his open hand, and then resumed her seat across the table from Martin.

"Laura, what are you doing?" Steele asked, rejoining her at the table.

"I'm a perfectly competent private investigator and I'm helping my friend and my client. I'll call you in Los Angeles in a few days and let you know how everything turns out."

CUT TO:

* * *

Later that evening, Martin Bailey ushered Steele and Laura into a furnished apartment in one of the Pontabla Buildings in the center of the French Quarter, flanking Jackson Square.

"I'm pleased you reconsidered, Mr. Steele," Martin stated as he closed a window overlooking the square. "I hope the revelry below won't disturb you too greatly. All of the hotel rooms in the city have long been booked."

"This will be fine, Martin. Don't worry," Laura said, surveying the small bedroom and bath while Steele stretched out on the living room couch.

"My law firm maintains this apartment for out of town partners," Martin continued. "It's normally unavailable this time of year as well."

"How can we reach you tomorrow?" Steele asked Martin, tossing the keys onto the coffee table with a sigh.

"Tomorrow is Endymion," Martin said.

"Endymion," Steele repeated.

"The Krewe of Endymion holds their Mardi Gras parade and ball tomorrow night. It's one of the largest of the season," Martin explained with real enthusiasm. "The entire parade travels inside the Louisiana Superdome where there's a lavish party for the krewe and their guests. Kool and the Gang is going to perform a full concert."

"Kool and the Gang, really," Steele said, conjuring a tone he knew Laura would decode as sarcasm, but would sail just over the head of their new client.

"What a fascinating ritual," Laura chimed in, matching his tone effortlessly. "Mr. Steele has such a fondness for American disco and R&B."

"Yes, well it's too bad we'll have to miss that spectacle," Steele replied. "We'll be off working the case after all."

"But that's where you'll unmask the killer," Martin answered.

"Just like that," Steele said.

"Yes," Martin replied.

"You'll point the killer out," Steele said.

"Yes, exactly. And then you'll trap him."

"Like they do in the movies," Steele added.

"You are the best, aren't you?" Martin replied, in an almost childlike tone. "Jim and Leslie deserve the best."

"Laura," Steele summoned.

"Oh, it won't be a problem to get inside the gala." Martin produced an envelope from the inside pocket of his suit coat. "We have tickets. Leslie gave them to me at lunch last week."

Laura sat beside Martin. "We'll do everything we can to unravel this case," Laura said in her most calm and rational manner, "but we can't possibly devise a plan to trap the killer at this point in the investigation. Mr. Steele and I have a great many facts to uncover before we can conclude that there was a murder at all. We'll start with the police report first thing in the morning."

"You won't get a police report before Wednesday morning. It's Mardi Gras. No one conducts regular business," Martin explained. "And I've told you, the report is a lie."

"Due to the conspiracy," Steele said, no longer bothering to hide his sarcasm.

"Yes, the conspiracy," Martin repeated.

"Martin, we all need a good night's sleep," Laura interjected, ushering him to the door. "Let's reconvene in the morning, and start fresh from there."

With a small nod, Martin assented and reluctantly exited to the hallway. "In the morning, then," he echoed, as Laura closed the door behind him.

"Top in your class at Stanford, eh?" Steele said when he was certain Martin was out of earshot.

"Don't start," Laura replied with a sigh, removing her heels and joining him on the couch. "I sat next to him in a logic class," Laura laughed. "Come to think of it, he was always asking to copy my notes."

Steele gathered Laura in an embrace and gave her a light kiss on the cheek. "It's certainly not the long weekend I imagined when you swept into my apartment this morning and told me to pack my bags for Mardi Gras."

"I told you we had a case," Laura said, settling comfortably into his arms.

"Yes, I know, I know. But I didn't think it was going to be a case," Steele replied. "I thought we'd squeeze in dinner at Galatoire's and haunt a few jazz clubs."

"So now you admit that there is a case," Laura said.

"I admit that this whole place is strange, starting with our client."

A loud cry erupted from the revelers below as a rag-tag troupe of costumed musicians entered the square below and began to play a raucous version of "When the Saints Go Marching In."

"Looks like you'll get to hear some music after all," Laura said, crossing the room and pushing the heavy drape aside to reveal a small balcony. Stepping outside, Laura noticed an assortment of colorful beads haphazardly adorning the wrought-iron balcony railings. Steele pulled on his leather jacket and joined Laura on the balcony, his mood lightening a bit as the crowd clapped in time with the upbeat tune.

But as more of throng moved towards the impromptu concert, Steele noticed a lifeless form in the shadows against the stone curb. "Laura," he said softly, drawing her attention to the figure below.

"Oh, dear Lord," she said. "Martin."

Steele made his way out of the apartment and down the stairs in a flash, pushing aside several young men huddled near the front door. He rushed to the slumped figure and turned him gently to his side.

"Is it?" Laura asked, reaching the scene.

"Most definitely," Steele replied, holding two fingers to the man's jugular to check for a pulse.

Laura's face was a mask of professionalism as Steele's eyes conveyed the grim truth. "I'll go up and call the police," she said. "Now, we have a case."

FADE OUT

END ACT ONE


	2. Act Two

**ACT TWO**

**FADE IN**

Laura Holt rested for a moment in the late morning sunlight. A fresh influx of tourists began to fill Jackson Square while a handful of bleary-eyed revelers straggled home, still feeling the impact of the previous evening.

"Over here, Mildred," Laura called out.

Mildred Krebs made her way along the north side of the square, past the stone steps of St. Louis Cathedral, and joined Laura in front of the old Spanish colonial building known as the Cabildo.

"Did you get settled in the apartment?" Laura asked.

"Yes, but I'm not sure where we're all going to sleep," Mildred laughed.

"No available hotels for fifty miles, it seems."

Mildred looked around the full length of the square. A large iron fence surrounded the lush gardens of the central square and the towering statue of the heroic (if late) General Andrew Jackson saving the day at the Battle of New Orleans. The iron fence served as backdrop for the dozens of artists and street performers who would ply their trades during the day. As Mildred watched, a caricature artist set up his easel against the perimeter, arraying his charcoals and scanning the crowd for a first customer. Nearby, a mime in white face paint and traditional garb marked out his territory, placing an overturned black hat on the sidewalk at the ready to receive a tossed coin.

"The show must go on," Laura said, thinking of the contrast between the liveliness of the morning and the events of the previous evening.

Mildred missed Laura's nuance, caught up in her own reverie. "I was so excited to get your phone call Miss Holt. You have no idea how long I've wanted to come here. I read the most fabulous romance novel set in New Orleans, 'Magnolias in the Moonlight'."

Laura half-listened, crossing slowly to the far end of the square while Mildred followed.

"It was about this gruff but kind-hearted colonel who lived in a crumbling mansion on the river," Mildred continued. "His wife had died tragically, but he held secret longing to find love again. A beautiful young woman entered his life at the beginning of the carnival season, but it was impossible for them to be together."

"Let me guess," Laura replied with a certain weariness. "They meet behind masks at a grand ball on the last night of Mardi Gras, and declare that their love can overcome any obstacle."

"Yes," Mildred gushed, "It was wonderful." Mildred stopped and studied Laura's expression. "Wait a second. How'd you know?"

"Never mind, Mildred," Laura answered. "Here's Mr. Steele."

"Ah, Miss Krebs," Steele said with a practiced joie di vivre. "How lovely to see you this morning." He handed a small ticket stub to each of them. "It was under our noses the whole time," Steele said to Laura, indicating a building on the opposite side of the Cathedral that matched the Cabildo in architectural style. "Let's go inside, shall we."

CUT TO:

* * *

Moments later, Remington Steele stood in a silent hallway inside the Louisiana State Museum, studying a fantastic costume encased in glass. A white tunic studded with rhinestones and trimmed with gold brocade adorned an ordinary storefront mannequin. An enormous gold cape with a white fur collar was draped around the mannequin's shoulders and extended outwards into a twenty-foot train, which, in turn, was intricately decorated with thousands of white and silver sequins in a repeating pattern of fleur de lis. A crown of crushed white velvet and a golden scepter completed the tableaux.

"Fit for a king, eh?" Steele said, as Laura joined him in front of the display case.

"Is this typical?" Laura asked. "The costume alone must cost more than the monthly rent on our office."

"Apparently so," Steele responded. "Although this one may be a little more elaborate than most. Presumably that's why it's preserved in the state museum. Says here that some of the jewels in the scepter are real."

Laura responded with a slight frown.

"No need to worry, Laura. Simply noting, simply noting," Steele continued.

"And the Mardi Gras Krewe Martin mentioned, Endymion?" Laura asked.

"Nothing specific, no," Steele said. "It seems there are dozens of krewes in the city, arranged in a hierarchy according to tradition and social status. Each krewe has a new king and court every year. They sponsor the parades for the general public and the private balls where they present their royalty, decked out in this sort of finery."

"Martin seemed certain that something regarding Jim and Leslie's murder was going to be revealed at the Endymion ball tonight," Laura said, recapping the facts of the case as she processed the new information. "It's not much to go on yet, but it's all we have. Let's see if Mildred found anything useful in the archive."

Steele and Laura rounded the corner to the research room of the museum where Mildred sat at large oak table.

"Anything?" Steele asked.

"Look at this chief," Mildred replied, pointing to a yellowed page in a stack of newspaper clippings. "These krewes hold elections at the end of each ball to determine who will be named king and queen and all the other royalty for the next year, but then, the results are held secret."

"Let me see that, Mildred," Laura said.

"So the members decide," Steele repeated. "Prestigious prize on the line, mired in secrecy. Would a rigged election be enough to kill for?"

"Kill three people for a fake kingship," Laura replied. "There's got to be more to it than that." Laura set the newspaper back in its stack. "Mildred, I think you and I should go to Martin's law office next and see what else we can dig up."

"Yes, yes," Steele said, "but I think there's something to this royal competition. They may be fake kings but they seem to wield real power in their own social circles."

"But the inner workings are all private, boss," Mildred said. "How are you going to poke around?"

Steele paced the room for a moment, head down in thought. "The Duke of Bridgewater," he said suddenly, clapping his hands together.

"Come again," Mildred replied.

"It's right there, just outside the window," Steele said with a flourish. "_The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_. Mickey Rooney, William Frawley, MGM, 1939. A young boy takes his raft down the Mississippi River in search of adventure and meets up with the Duke of Bridgewater, not to mention the lost King of France."

"A boy escaping his past joins forces with a con man playing the Duke of Bridgewater," Laura replied with a spark. "I may not have seen the movie, but every American school child has read the book."

Steele bypassed Laura's taunt. "Well, in my version, the Duke of Bridgewater, a genuine English nobleman, journeys to New Orleans to ascertain how one joins the Krewe of Endymion. It's his one shot at someday becoming king, you see."

"I see," Laura said, smiling despite herself at his inventiveness. "Sounds dubious."

"The whole thing is dubious, Laura, but we've got to do something." Steele caught Laura's eye and held her gaze for a long moment. "For your friend." Laura nodded in agreement as he continued. "You and Mildred run off to do your leg work. The Duke will have you over for tea this afternoon."

CUT TO:

* * *

"Castille, Bradford, & Calhoun," Laura said, guiding the rental car to a stop along a tree-lined residential street. "This must be it."

"It looks more like a house than a major law firm," Mildred replied.

Laura surveyed the block. "That may be to our advantage. No office tower security to contend with and it seems that most of the neighbors are conspicuously absent."

"Afternoon parade," Mildred said, pointing to a crowd gathered at the opposite end of the street.

"Perfect. Let's look for a soft spot around back."

Half an hour later, Laura and Mildred were ensconced in Martin Bailey's wood paneled office inside the old house. Laura searched through Martin's personal files while Mildred attacked the defenses of his desktop computer.

"Got it!" Mildred announced. "People should take the time to change their default password. There were two logins on this computer. The second one got me in."

"What's that Mildred?"

"Two user names for the computer. 'M Bailey' I couldn't crack – must have a very tricky password. But with the other user name, 'L Calhoun', I got in right away."

"L Calhoun?" Laura asked.

"One of the law partners, right?" Mildred replied.

"No, James K. Calhoun was the partner here," Laura said, holding up a piece of law firm letterhead. "He was Martin's friend who was killed a few days ago. I don't know where his wife Leslie practiced."

"It looks like she worked here, Miss Holt. There are dozens of files under her user name – drafts of pleadings, motions, and tons of correspondence."

"Can you open the most recent file?"

"This document is dated February 26th," Mildred said.

"Just before her death," Laura responded. "Page down a bit, Mildred."

Mildred tapped the down arrow key, sending green text scrolling down the black screen.

"It seems routine," Mildred said. "Ah, look there."

Before them on the computer screen a paragraph of legal boilerplate gave way to a hastily worded warning typed in all capital letters. "MARTIN," it read. "PLAN CHANGE. SONNY ON TO US. EVIDENCE IN PACKAGE. SAT. NIGHT. # 36."

"Sonny?" Mildred asked.

"Must be Sonny Bradford, the managing partner," Laura replied. "But if Martin actually got this warning from Leslie why didn't he tell us about it last night?"

"It says 'on to us', Miss Holt. Martin may have had secrets of his own."

At that moment, an alarm sounded at the front door. Laura carefully opened the office door and glanced down the hallway in time to catch a glimpse of gloved hand slamming the door shut from the outside.

"Unplug the computer, Mildred," Laura said. "Whoever set off that alarm is gone for now, but I'm in no mood to wait around and see who turns up next."

CUT TO:

* * *

Across town, Steele, wearing a new Italian suit and a freshly conceived false identity, sauntered to the front gate of the Louisiana Superdome. Entering the cavernous arena, he spied a young man in jeans and a canvas work shit who appeared to be in charge of the preparations for the evening. With a booming voice Steele approached the young foreman, "Good afternoon, sir. May I present myself. William Frawley, the 18th Duke of Bridgewater. Would you be so kind as to point me in the direction of your membership director?"

"My membership director?" the young man repeated, peering over his clipboard.

"Yes, yes. This is the proper location for festivities this evening isn't it? I'm so looking forward to seeing the transformation of this, well, behemoth structure into an elegant setting for a costume ball."

Steele gestured grandly while taking in the expanse of the facility. At one end of the main floor, a trio of bulky men worked to erect a concert stage while carpenters placed the finishing touches on a series of reviewing stands in the center of the stadium. A third work crew paced the catwalks overhead, stretching a fine mesh net to hold the balloons and confetti that would rain down on the assembly at the end of the gala.

"You want to join Endymion by tonight?" the young man asked.

"Money's no object, my good man," Steele replied, rushing his pace in attempt to overcome the young man's inertia. "I have tickets for the ball, you see, but there's much more to be had, isn't there? My local solicitor – the chap who manages all of my oil and gas interests here in the states – speaks so highly of this fraternal brotherhood that I simply have to find a way to get on the inside."

The young man still made no move. Steele examined him carefully, looking for an opening, then noticed he was wearing a Rolling Stones concert t-shirt under his work shirt. "May I take you into my confidence, Mr. ….."

"Spencer," the younger man replied, taking off his ball cap. "Spencer LaBue."

"Have you ever had a great desire, Spencer? Perhaps a vast longing that the rest of those around you didn't quite understand?" Steele fixed his blue eyes on the young man and continued to spin his tale. "I have everything a man could want. More money than I could ever spend, copious land holdings including my own tropical island – Mick Jagger was there last week – and a beautiful, intelligent wife – the Lady Bridgewater." Steele paused for effect. "But I am 316th in line to British throne. Do you know what that means?"

"Someday you'll be king?" Spencer ventured in a wavering tone, as if a teacher had caught him unprepared for class.

"You cut me to the quick," Steele replied. "No, Spencer, there are three hundred and fifteen dear members of the extended royal family in line ahead of me, and they're having more children all the time. I'll never be king of England - at least not without a great deal of carnage, and I can't risk that kind of karmic debt."

Steele modulated his voice to a softer tone, drawing Spencer in closely. "That's why I need your help right now. If I can join Endymion, perhaps one day I can command this impressive kingdom, eh?"

"OK, man, I mean, duke. Let me see what I can find out." Spencer mumbled something into his walkie-talkie and headed for a suite of makeshift offices on the mezzanine level.

Steele smiled and stretched out in the first available chair, wishing Laura could have been present to see his performance. He shut his eyes for just a moment, re-imagining the scene, and then opened them quickly as he heard a female voice call out to him from behind.

"If you're the Duke of Bridgewater, I'm the lost Dauphin," the woman said. Steele turned slowly in his seat to find a slight young woman in jeans and a colorful t-shirt leaning over his chair.

"You're Remington Steele," she continued. "And William Frawley played the upstairs neighbor on_ I Love Lucy_."

"After a distinguished career in the cinema," Steele replied. "And you are?"

"Cindy Bourque," the woman said, extending her hand in greeting. "You can relax Mr. Steele. I'm not going to blow your cover. I was hoping I might find you here."

Steele stood up and shook Cindy's hand.

"I know you're working for Martin Bailey," she continued. "I'm a second year law student at Loyola, and Martin let me, um, borrow his law books, from time to time."

"I see," Steele answered, trying to determine how much to reveal. "So you were aware of Martin's sense of foreboding about the ball this evening."

"Yes," Cindy said. "And after what happened to him, I'm beginning to share it."

From the corner of his eye Steele noted Spencer's return and motioned for Cindy to fall silent. As Spencer approached Steele resumed his pose. "That's a fascinating story, Miss Bourque. I must have you share it with my wife, the Lady Bridgewater. She's immersed in carnival history."

"Hey, Duke," Spencer interrupted. "A man named Sonny Bradford is in charge of new members. He won't be here this afternoon, but you can catch him tonight. He'll ride in on float 36."

"Thank you. You've been most kind," Steele replied, sending Spencer on his way. "Miss Bourque," he continued, "I wonder if I might take up a little more of your time."

CUT TO:

* * *

An hour later, Steele, Laura and Cindy Bourque hunched over a small table in an outdoor café.

"Where's Mildred?" Steele asked, as the waiter distributed menus.

"I sent her to get something to wear to the ball this evening," Laura replied, running her finger across the lapel of Steele's new suit coat. "This case is going to cost us a fortune in wardrobe upgrades."

"Cindy," Steele interrupted, noting her reaction to Laura's comment. "Miss Holt didn't mean that quite as callously as it sounded. Of course money is not our primary concern when there's a murderer to be brought to justice."

"I'm sorry, Cindy," Laura said. "Mr. Steele tells me that you and Martin were quite close."

"Martin was different than most of the men you meet here in New Orleans," Cindy replied. "I haven't even finished law school, but he took me seriously – took my ideas seriously. It's rare to find a man who will really listen."

Laura smiled warmly. "That's a rare person to find anywhere, in my experience," she said. Steele hid a small smile behind his menu.

"Now, let's see what we can piece together before this evening's presumed fireworks," Laura continued. "Did Martin ever say anything to you about Leslie Calhoun working at the law office? Her name's not on the letterhead, but she had a login on Martin's office computer."

"I suppose there's no harm in revealing that secret now," Cindy responded.

"Please, Cindy," Steele encouraged. "Anything you know may be helpful."

"Leslie was working at the law office," she continued. "At night, after the senior partners went home. Jim Calhoun never passed the bar. Leslie was the real brains of the operation."

"But Jim's name is on the door," Laura said.

"Passed down from his father, and his father before that. Family status means a great deal in this town."

"So we're learning," Steele said.

"Jim and Leslie took the bar exam at the same time, right after they were married," Cindy explained. "When Leslie passed and Jim didn't, Jim bribed a judge to change the names on the official record. Martin said Jim wouldn't have been able to face his father."

"And Leslie went along with it," Laura asked.

"She thought she'd pass the bar again later, under her own name. But things got more complicated when Jim wasn't actually able to do the legal work. At first Martin helped him…"

"Then Leslie started writing Jim's legal briefs at night," Laura replied, putting the pieces together. "Martin kept the secret."

"Remarkable," Steele replied. "Certainly not the intrigue I suspected."

"We found a rather panicked note from Leslie in Martin's office, indicating that Sonny Bradford was on to them," Laura continued.

"I don't know anything about that, Miss Holt," Cindy replied.

"But subterfuge about passing the bar doesn't seem like a motive for murder," Steele mused.

"Yes," Laura said, revising her assumptions. "And as managing partner, Bradford would _want_ Jim to produce billable hours for the firm, whatever the method."

"Wait, Sonny Bradford," Steele said. "This does connect to the Mardi Gras krewe somehow. Sonny Bradford controls the membership of the Krewe of Endymion. The Duke of Bridgewater is due to speak with him this evening."

"Leslie's warning made reference to evidence in a package Saturday night," Laura stated. "Why would she ferret out evidence of her own deception?"

"I don't get it," Cindy said.

"We don't either," Laura replied. "Yet. We have to find some sort of package tonight at the ball."

"Before our murderer does," Steele added.

Laura released the tension with a small laugh. "Moonlight and Magnolias."

"Hmm?" Steele queried.

"Something Mildred said this morning about the romance of a masked ball. We may all be getting more than we bargained for."

FADE OUT

END ACT TWO


	3. Act Three

**ACT THREE**

**FADE IN**

Laura stood before a mirror in the living room of the Pontabla apartment Saturday night, wearing an elegant lavender evening gown. Steele, in white dinner jacket and white tie, watched her prepare.

"Mildred thought I needed accessories," Laura said as she set a costume tiara in her hair. "I'm not so sure." Laura pushed the tiara back and then tilted it to the left. "The Lady Bridgewater," she said with a slight sigh. "I suppose my mother would approve."

"Would you have Mildred play my wife?" Steele asked with a smile.

Laura continued to adjust the prop. "How does she occupy herself all day, while the Duke plays polo and smokes cigars with the other dukes?"

"The Lady Bridgewater?" Steele replied, moving in close behind Laura and fitting his hand around her waist. "I believe she's a chemist. Lectures at Oxford." With his free hand, he carefully removed the tiara and set it aside. "Or would you prefer Cambridge?"

Laura smiled and turned towards him, maintaining the embrace. "Oxford will do."

As they moved closer for a kiss, a loud crash sounded from the bedroom, followed by an animated shout.

"Everything OK, Mildred?" Steele called.

"Mr. Steele, Miss Holt, you won't believe this," Mildred responded.

Laura and Steele entered the room to find Mildred crouched beside an antique dressing table and holding a stack of papers. "I dropped an earring," Mildred began. "Couldn't find the darn thing for ten minutes. When I was poking around down here I must have flipped some sort of secret latch. The drawer fell right out."

Steele ran his hand under the table and rapped the wood. "False bottom."

"And these were in the drawer?" Laura asked, flipping quickly through the papers.

"Yep," Mildred answered. "Billing records."

"Billing records?" Steele repeated, incredulous.

"From Castille, Bradford & Calhoun - Martin's law firm," Laura said. "Looks like several months' worth. The firm owns this apartment."

While Laura rifled through the papers, Steele bent his long frame under the desk to search for other hidden compartments. He came up empty handed. "Nothing else that I can see from a quick once over. Do those records mean anything to you?"

"Not yet," Laura answered. "Let's take a sample along with us," she continued, folding the top page and tucking it into the inside pocket of Steele's jacket. "The Endymion parade should be entering the Superdome in about an hour. We all need to grab our glass slippers and get to the ball."

CUT TO:

* * *

As the trio entered the massive domed arena the evening's festivities were well underway. Raucous music boomed from stacks of concert speakers as elaborately decorated floats adorned with hundreds of strands of tiny lights entered the mammoth structure from the street. The masked riders atop each float switched into overdrive as they entered the dome, tossing beads by the handful to the thousands of party-goers assembled on the ground floor.

Although Laura could do without the pomp and circumstance of a formal ball, she was taken in again by the sheer fun of the Mardi Gras style of parade and the playful competition for beads along the route.

"Oh, Miss Holt. Can't we get a little closer to the floats?" Mildred asked. "We missed out this afternoon."

"Go ahead," Steele said, catching Laura's eye. "The Duke will poke around a bit."

As she and Mildred reached the protective barricades, Laura noticed that each of the floats were decorated according to the theme of the parade, which, as best she could tell, had something to do with Greek myth. A large float at the rear of the parade illustrated the story of Endymion, the krewe's namesake. A figure of Pan – half-man, half-goat – was affixed to the front of the float while a paper mache orb representing the full moon dominated the rear. A masked rider dressed as Pan danced on the float's highest platform, twirling several of the largest and most prized beads in the air in time to the music, to the delight of the crowd below.

As Laura continued to watch, the man in the Pan costume opened a partially hidden door behind his platform and reached quickly inside the wooden superstructure of the float to retrieve more throws. For a brief moment, the back side of the door was visible, revealing the number "36" spray-painted on bare plywood.

"Mildred," Laura said suddenly. "Tell me you saw that?"

"What?"

"The identification number for the float – 36."

"Leslie's warning message," Mildred said, catching on.

"Exactly. We have to find a way to get on that float."

CUT TO:

* * *

Later, Steele was seated at a small banquet table several hundred yards back from the indoor parade route. A bottle of champagne cooled in a chrome-plated stand beside him. As the crowd slowly left the barricades and snaked their way to their own tables, a costumed man approached Steele from behind.

"Can I interest you in something stronger?" the man said.

Steele turned to find a man in a flesh colored tunic, brown leggings and ornate headpiece sprouting fabulous curled horns. "Are you going to challenge me to a duel with those things if I refuse?"

"My apologies," the man replied in a courtly tone, removing the headpiece and extending his hand.

"Pleased to meet you," Steele replied tersely, holding back to see what the man would reveal on his own.

"You're the British oil man, right? The Duke of Bridgewater?" the costumed man said with a wide smile. "I'm Sonny Bradford, the Prince of Membership. I understand you were looking for me this afternoon."

Steele motioned for the older man to sit down. "Call me William, Mr. Bradford," he said. "Unless you prefer to keep a formal tone to our proceedings."

"Hard to do in this get-up," he replied with a hearty laugh. "Everyone calls me Sonny. Mr. Bradford was my father, and he'd be the first to tell you I've never measured up to that title or any other."

"He didn't approve of these festivities?" Steele ventured.

"Depends what you mean by festivities," Sonny replied. "My father belonged to Comus, the most exclusive New Orleans krewe. More country club than football stadium."

"But don't those sorts of privileges pass from father to son?" Steele asked.

"They did," Sonny said. "But I'm the second son. First sons get the prizes."

"And second sons get..."

"A generation or two earlier and I would have been ushered into the seminary, no questions asked."

"You, ah, chose an older religion," Steele said, gesturing to the costume ram's head which lay between them on the table.

"And a newer krewe," Sonny said with a smile. "We're open to anyone with the right bank statement, regardless of accent."

Steele lifted his glass in response. "Then we understand one another."

"I'm glad we do," Sonny continued. "Come with me backstage. I need to slip into something more formal for the rest of the evening, and I was hoping we could conduct our business before more pressing concerns demand my attention."

"Certainly," Steele said. "Lead the way."

Sonny Bradford led Steele towards one of the large tunnels that separated the floor level of the arena from the administrative spaces tucked behind the tiered rows of seating. As they entered the back hallway, Steele spotted Laura alone at the far end of the corridor.

"I'll catch up to you in moment Sonny," Steele said. "I see my wife is trying to get my attention."

"Your wife is quite beautiful," Sonny replied. "You're a lucky man." Steele tried to determine if there was menace in Sonny's tone, but Sonny moved quickly back to business. "Meet me here in the locker room when you're done. The Saints give us the run of their facilities tonight."

"Saints?" Steele asked, confused by the reference.

"Our professional football team," Sonny said, looking at Steele closely. "I thought you'd spent a bit of time here."

"Of course," Steele said, trying to smooth over any doubt that may have surfaced in Sonny's mind. "Bit of a ring in my ears from the loud music in the arena."

"We don't always like to claim them either, what with the season they had. Beat the Steelers though, in prime time, on Monday Night Football." Sonny pushed open the door to the locker room and walked inside.

CUT TO:

* * *

Steele headed down the hallway towards Laura, shaking his head slightly at his inability to successfully read the other man.

"What are you doing back here?" Laura asked when he reached her.

"Cozying up to Sonny Bradford."

"Have you lowered his defenses?"

"He may have lowered mine. The man's a bit opaque, behind a charming façade."

"I'm familiar with the type," Laura said with a smile, placing a hand on his lapel.

"He's invited me into the footballers' locker room to continue our transaction."

"Could be a trap," Laura stated evenly, attempting to mask her concern. "If he's our man, he's killed three people."

"Then I sincerely hope you've found the package. If it proves he's our man, we can stop this little charade before someone else gets hurt."

"I have a lead," Laura said. "The floats have identification numbers, which could be what Leslie meant by number 36 in her message. They're in a holding area of some kind at the end of this hallway." Laura indicated a set of thick metal doors to her left. "As soon as Mildred comes back to stand guard, I'll slip in and have a look around."

"Could be a trap," Steele echoed, not bothering to mask his concern.

"Then you'll just have to keep Bradford occupied for a little longer," Laura said with a smile. "Besides, it may be your one chance to be king."

CUT TO:

* * *

Inside the locker room, Steele examined a jeweled scepter not unlike the one he had admired in the state museum. As he held it up to the light, watching the glass jewels glisten, he pondered how to gain the upper hand from Bradford in this round.

"Your monarch seems to have misplaced his magic wand," Steele quipped as Sonny Bradford emerged from the adjoining room, freshly showered and dressed in black pants and a crisp white shirt.

"Clever," Sonny responded. "I like a man who's quick on his feet." He picked up the scepter and felt its weight in his hands. "This little wand will go to the new king we elect tonight."

"Perhaps you?" Steele ventured.

"I doubt it," Sonny replied. "My name is often tossed into the ring, but I'm always a bridesmaid, never the bride."

Steele smiled. "Surely most men here must want to be king. I imagine it has its privileges."

Sonny refused to elaborate and attempted to turn the line of questioning. "You must find this all a little silly, Duke – a bunch of grown men in foolish costumes playing dress-up games."

"Not at all," Steele replied quickly. "I was under the impression that these brotherhoods often granted entre to some very high stakes ventures."

"Is that what you're really after?"

"If it's what you're offering."

Sonny motioned for Steele to follow him deeper into the locker room complex, into a small weight training room situated behind the last row of lockers.

"You must have excellent sources to know of our project," Sonny said.

"I believe I do," Steele replied.

"You're not an oil man at all, are you?" Sonny said. "You must have met our men in Monte Carlo in January, on the governor's tour of France."

Although ignorant of the significance of these new details, Steele endeavored not to be caught flat-footed again. He bluffed.

"I learned a great deal in Monte Carlo."

"Fifty-thousand, then." Sonny replied. "This evening."

"I'll venture one hundred." Steele countered. "I thought we were talking about high stakes."

"Very well. You'll excuse me for a moment while I get the paperwork," Sonny said. "I'll be right back."

Steele feigned nonchalance while Sonny exited the weight room, and then slipped quietly out behind him, concerned by the prospect of letting Sonny out of his sight for too long.

CUT TO:

* * *

Steele checked the main corridor of the locker room and peered into the large tiled bathroom, his footsteps echoing in the empty space, but saw no sign of Bradford.

As he returned to entranceway, Steele heard a clatter. Several moments passed, followed by another metallic bang. After a similar interval, the bang returned.

Following the sound Steele approached the door marked steam room. Opening the door, he was pelted by a blast of superheated steam. The clangs grew louder and more insistent. Through the haze Steele noticed a large teak cabinet in the corner of the room, sporting a white plastic sign labeled "Clean Towels". A pipe wrench was wedged into the cabinet door handle, jamming it shut. With each clang, the wrench clattered against the metal handle but refused to budge. Steele removed the wrench and carefully opened the cabinet door. Cindy Bourque slumped over into his arms, nearly unconscious from the intense heat and her efforts to free herself.

Without hesitation Steele carried the young woman out of the steam room, through the main locker room, and into the cool air of the large hallway. Glancing down the corridor, Steele saw Mildred manning her post outside of the float storage area. "Rest here for a moment, Cindy," he said, as she began to revive. "We're going to get you out of here."

CUT TO:

* * *

Meanwhile, Laura Holt was deep inside the bowels of float 36.

Endymion's double-decker floats were constructed much as a house would be, with thick beams at the corners and a cross-hatch structure of wooden supports which held the plywood walls. The structure was attached to a standard flat-bed trailer, which was itself attached to a commercial grade pick-up truck.

Kicking aside empty beer cans and strands of broken beads, Laura worked methodically through the inner recesses of the float, searching every crevice where a package might possibly be hidden. Frustrated, Laura set for a moment on a red ice chest and trained her flashlight again on the wooden beams. "I was certain this was what Leslie meant," she said to herself.

Cold water dripped from the small valve on the side of the ice chest, creating a trickle of water that flowed under the edge of Laura's ball gown to her feet. As she rose quickly in reaction to the icy rivulet, the cooler tipped over on its side and the lid fell open. Under the rapidly melting cubes, Laura noticed a large white plastic coated envelope wrapped securely with packing tape. She reached in, and pulled the envelope out. "Eureka," she smiled.

Laura climbed the interior staircase to the second level of the float, emerging on the top platform – the dim light of the makeshift storage hangar preferable to the near total darkness of the float interior. Using the ragged edge of a broken liquor bottle, Laura sliced through the tape and opened the envelope, revealing a stash of papers, not unlike the ones Mildred had discovered in the apartment earlier.

"Fraudulent billing records," Laura said out loud, quickly flipping through the pages in sequence. "Of course." From even a cursory look at the top few sheets, Laura could see that these invoices had the same dates and names as the records Mildred discovered, but radically different billing amounts.

At that moment, light streamed into the storage area as the heavy metal doors at the front of the room swung open. Laura crouched below the half-wall surrounding the top platform and could just make out the figures of two men in dark clothing moving swiftly across the room and climbing into the cab of the truck attached to float 36. The roar of the truck engine echoed across the concrete floor and cinder block walls. With a jolt, the truck and trailer sprung forward, knocking Laura to her back.

The truck maneuvered past the other parked floats, turned into the large hallway and headed for the end of the corridor, where a metal garage door was raised to provide access to the street outside.

CUT TO:

* * *

At the other end of the long corridor, Steele and Mildred helped Cindy Bourque to her feet. "Two goons knocked me out, Mr. Steele," Cindy said. "That's all I remember."

Mildred turned to the left as she heard the sound of the approaching truck and its trailer. Recognizing the figure of Pan attached to the front of the float, Mildred called out, "Miss Holt's on that float!"

Laura's head popped up near the paper mache moon as the truck accelerated towards the open door. Laura dangled a leg over the side of the float, calculating the amount of force she'd need to employ to propel herself away from the side and clear of the large wheels without slamming into the cinder block wall.

"Laura don't jump!" Steele called, and took off at full speed behind the trailer as it headed for the street. As the truck approached the threshold it slowed slightly, jerking the trailer again and causing a rear door to swing open. Steele leaped and dove inside the float in the nick of time. As Mildred and Cindy watched, the truck took off at full speed into the New Orleans night.

FADE OUT

END ACT THREE


	4. Act Four

**ACT FOUR**

**FADE IN**

"Laura, are you alright?" Steele asked, reaching the top platform of the Mardi Gras float as it sped down the interstate away from downtown New Orleans.

"I'm fine. I'm fine." Laura adjusted the skirt of her evening gown and made room for him beside her on the small bench. "If it hadn't been for several cumbersome yards of satin, I could have jumped off this thing before it left the arena."

"Well, I'm glad you didn't," Steele replied. "I had visions of your lovely head smashing against the corridor wall mid-leap and I already had one injured patient on my hands."

"Really, who?"

"Cindy Bourque. Someone stuffed her in a locker in the steam room and wasn't planning on returning anytime soon."

"Did she see anything?"

Steele shrugged his head no. "I called Mildred over to help me with Cindy. That must be when our new chauffeur in the truck up front took the opportunity to make his entrance and spirit you away."

Steele scanned the horizon as the highway threaded its way through an industrial landscape of warehouses and auto repair shops. "Any idea where we're headed?"

"West," Laura said, pointing to a sign mounted above the interstate. "I saw a mile marker for the airport a little while ago. Beyond that, I don't know."

"West is good," Steele said dryly. "2000 miles or so. Texas. Arizona. If the driver doesn't stop much, we'll be home in a few days. Not my preferred mode of transportation, but beggars can't always be choosers, eh?"

"That's what I love about you, Mr. Steele," Laura teased. "Always looking for the silver lining."

Laura shifted gears, reaching for the envelope she had discovered moments before. "As much as I'd like to be on our way back to Los Angeles right now, we have more pressing concerns. Look at this."

"Our mysterious package?"

"A second set of billing records, with Bradford's initials." Laura reached inside Steele's jacket for the sheet of paper she had placed in his pocket earlier. "Together with this invoice from the false drawer in the apartment, we have evidence that Bradford's firm was bilking clients for tens of thousands of dollars."

"And Leslie, working at night, stumbled on to his scheme."

"A plausible motive for murder," Laura said.

"Then let's combine it with a motive for fraud," Steele replied. "The Duke made some headway too. Bradford invited me to join a high stakes venture with an initial ante of fifty thousand dollars."

"What kind of venture?"

"I have no idea. I had to pretend that I already knew in order to get him to issue the invitation at all."

Laura looked at him skeptically.

"You have your methods," he replied. "I have mine."

"Tell me you didn't promise the man fifty thousand dollars."

"Of course not," Steele replied. "I promised him a hundred thousand." He watched for Laura's reaction of dismay, then continued. "Had to make it look like I was serious. Bradford trundled off to get a contract…"

"Did you sign something?" Laura exclaimed.

"As who, exactly? William Frawley? You know me better than that, Miss Holt. No binding commitments were made."

"Touché," Laura replied, looking for his smile in response. Receiving it, she got up from the bench and began to walk carefully towards the front of the float.

"Whatever the scheme, Bradford can't be acting alone," Steele continued. "Bradford didn't go after Cindy this evening. She must have been trapped in that steam room cabinet for an hour or more, and he was with me. There wasn't time."

"There never is," Laura said, pointing to the truck. "The float is slowing down. We're leaving the highway."

"May I suggest the element of surprise," Steele said, opening the door to the interior of the float. Laura grabbed the broken bottle she had employed earlier and followed Steele down the stairs to the first level of the float. In the near total darkness, they made their way down the length of the float, past the empty beer cans, broken beads, and other debris, and took up positions on either side of the rear door.

Moments after the float came to full stop, the door flew open with a bang. Three men in dark suits with close-cropped hair pushed through the entrance in quick succession, each brandishing snub-nosed pistols.

As Steele prepared to blindside the man closest to him with two-by-four, the man wheeled around and pointed his gun at Steele's gut.

"Hand's up!" he shouted. "Drop your weapon. Now!"

CUT TO:

* * *

Several hours later, Steele and Laura bided their time in a sparsely furnished conference room under harsh fluorescent lights. A young man with a familiar face entered the room with a clipboard and several folders and took a seat at the cold metal table that filled most of the room.

"Mr. Steele, Miss Holt, I'm Spencer LaBue, special agent with the FBI."

"We're happy to cooperate in any way we can," Laura said in her most professional tone.

Steele extended his hand. "Good to see you again, Spencer. No hard feelings, I hope." Laura looked at him quizzically.

"None at all, Mr. Steele. We both had our roles to play this afternoon," Agent LaBue replied.

"And now." Steele replied.

"With the evidence you provided this evening – evidence we certainly would have found when we impounded the float – we can confirm Leslie Calhoun's allegation of billing irregularities at Castille, Bradford and Calhoun."

"That crime alone hardly seems to warrant the involvement of the FBI," Laura ventured.

"You're right, Miss Holt. We have bigger fish to fry."

"The murders," Steele stated.

"Not my jurisdiction," LaBue responded. "Although, with your help, we can bring Sonny Bradford and his co-conspirators to justice on host of charges, which should also help the state authorities convict them of the murders."

"What sort of help do you have in mind, Special Agent?" Laura asked.

LaBue bypassed Laura and addressed Steele directly. "I know you're Remington Steele, but Bradford doesn't. He's in hock to several organized crime figures, providing certain services to compensate for gambling losses."

"The billing irregularities are evidence of money laundering," Laura surmised.

LaBue continued to address Steele. "Did he invite you – invite the Duke of Bridgewater – to join the Monte Carlo partnership?"

"I can't say with any certainty what he invited me to join. We were interrupted."

"What is the Monte Carlo partnership?" Laura asked.

"We're hoping you can persuade Bradford to reveal that answer," LaBue responded, answering Laura's question but keeping his attention fixed on Steele.

"But if you don't know what it is, how do you know it involves a federal crime…." Laura's voice trailed off as she finished her thought. Decisively, Laura pushed her chair back from the table and stood, then placed both hands firmly on the table and leaned towards the special agent. "Would you excuse Mr. Steele and I for a moment, please."

"I'm in the middle of an investigation," LaBue responded curtly, conceding no ground.

"Are either one of us under arrest?"

"No."

"Then we'd like a moment in private."

LaBue glared at Laura but remained professional, gathering his folders and exiting the conference room without a word.

CUT TO:

* * *

"Why are you picking a fight with the feds?" Steele asked after the door closed.

"The FBI is trying to put a racketeering case together," Laura replied.

"Fine. Why wouldn't we help them?"

"We will, but we need some guarantees before we offer you as the lure. Right now, they need us more than we need them."

"What do you mean?"

"Think about it for a minute. Why wouldn't a federal agent do the job LaBue is asking you to do?"

"Laura, I'm too tired for games."

"It's not a game. Why does he need you for the sting?"

"Because it's foolhardy and reckless to try to con a murderous mobster when you don't know what you're up against."

"Because they're worried about entrapment," Laura stated.

"I'm worried about entrapment."

"Legal entrapment," Laura replied. "If an agent doesn't solicit the offer from Bradford in a precisely prescribed manner, the convictions will be overturned in court. You're not an agent."

"And I'm not the Duke of Bridgewater," Steele said, finding himself in synch with Laura's train of thought.

"Precisely," Laura said with a gleam in her eye.

"I'll fetch Spencer and make the deal."

CUT TO:

* * *

Late the next morning, Steele sat down for coffee on the back patio of a Garden District mansion near a bend in the Mississippi River.

"It was good to hear from you this morning, Duke," Sonny Bradford said as he filled Steele's cup.

"Dainty," Steele said, holding the tiny cup aloft.

"It's called demitasse," Sonny responded. "My wife picked this set up in Paris a few weeks ago, before we went to Monte Carlo. The French press makes our coffee so strong, we only need half a cup."

"I'm learning a great deal about your traditions."

"I'm heartened to learn that disappearing the way you did last night isn't one of your unique customs," Sonny said. "I thought we had an understanding."

"Indeed we do, Sonny," Steele replied. "Indeed we do."

CUT TO:

* * *

At the same moment, Mildred and Laura peered through a hedge that separated the Bradford property from the adjacent mansion.

"I hope your men have a better vantage point than we do," Laura said as Special Agent LaBue approached.

"All you need to worry about is making your entrance," he responded. He pointed to an agent in the second floor window above. "We'll give you your cue."

CUT TO:

* * *

"Now that we've had a chance to visit," Sonny said, "I think it's time to get down to unfinished business. You've brought the hundred thousand."

"I've brought collateral," Steele replied. "It's difficult to get cash on short notice, but I think this item will satisfy your requirements and allow our deal to move forward." Steele opened a briefcase and placed a tiara between them on the patio table – the same costume tiara Laura had rejected the evening before.

"I'm not a jewelry expert," Sonny stated, lifting the tiara and holding it up to reflect the late morning sunlight.

"I wouldn't expect you be," Steele said quickly. "May I?" He retrieved the tiara and pointed to the glass jewels. "These four small diamonds are marquis cut, nearly flawless, half a carat each. These blue stones, here, between each diamond – they may look like sapphires to the naked eye, but are actually far more precious…"

CUT TO:

* * *

"How's the chief doing?" Mildred asked. "Can you see anything?"

"They're examining the tiara," Laura replied. "I can't see Bradford's reaction."

"I spent nearly four bucks on it, Miss Holt," Mildred said, deadpan. "It should work."

CUT TO:

* * *

"I can see that this item means a great deal to you, Duke," Sonny said. But I'm afraid my partners will require something more solid, shall we say, than your word."

"Of course," Steele replied. "I wouldn't expect your partners to accept me into the fold without proving my worth."

Steele opened the briefcase for a second time and produced a slightly yellowed piece of paper, embossed in the lower right corner with a raised seal. "A certificate of authenticity," he said, handing the document to Bradford. "You'll see that the detailed description matches the tiara you hold in your hand, and that a world-renowned gemologist, Benjamin Pearson, recently valued the prize at well over one hundred thousand dollars, U.S. I needed a proper appraisal before I could bring the item to the states."

"I see," Sonny replied, running his fingers over the seal. "This should do for now. I'll simply need your signature on this prospectus." Bradford placed a thick stack of documents on the table and offered Steele a fountain pen. "We call our venture the Monte Carlo partnership. Of course, we can make no warranty of future returns. You must be prepared to lose your entire stake. But you'll see here, on page five, that we have the assurances of some very powerful players."

"You won't mind if I take a few minutes to read this through," Steele replied.

"Take your time. More coffee?"

"Yes, thank you."

As Sonny retreated to the kitchen, Steele got up from the table and made a show of walking around the patio, waving the prospectus in the direction of the neighboring house.

"Go!" Agent LaBue directed.

Laura slipped through the hedge and onto the Bradford property. Circling the swimming pool, she wound her way through the landscaped yard and reached the patio just as Sonny returned with fresh coffee.

"Lady Bridgewater," Sonny exclaimed. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Darling," said Steele as Bridgewater. "What are you doing here?"

"Don't darling me, William," Laura said, adopting the role of outraged spouse. "What are you getting yourself into?"

"Nothing, Darling. Nothing at all." Steele waved the prospectus in the air with comic exaggeration and then hid it behind his back.

"Then why did you leave the hotel with my great-grandmother's heirloom tiara!" Laura shouted, moving in close to him.

"A little over the top Laura," Steele said, sotto voice. "Down a notch."

"It's an investment, Darling," he continued, full voice, resuming the charade with his most practiced charm. "Don't you trust me by now? Don't I always look out for our mutual well-being?"

Sonny Bradford stood riveted to his spot, greatly amused by the domestic drama.

"What are you hiding behind your back, William?" Laura continued as the angry victim. With a lunge, she reached behind his back for the prospectus, "Give me that!"

Laura made a great show of flipping through the pages in the prospectus as Steele moved a few steps closer to Bradford.

"Mother!" she bellowed.

Mildred emerged from behind a large magnolia tree and entered the patio.

"Take this paperwork to our lawyer, mother," Laura commanded. "Right away!"

Moving close to Mildred to hand over the records, she asked in low tone, "Is Bradford buying it?" Mildred nodded and took the prospectus, leaving the patio and slipping back through the hedge.

"I'm terribly sorry for this display, Sonny," Steele said, taking another cup of coffee and assuming the role of detached observer of the Lady Bridgewater's theatrics. "You hold on to the tiara for now. I'm certain we can clear this all up in the next few days."

"William," Laura beckoned from the edge of the patio.

"Coming, Darling," Steele answered.

CUT TO:

* * *

"Well that was certainly invigorating," Steele said in his normal voice, taking Laura's arm as they skirted the edge of the Bradford property and headed towards the street.

"I haven't had that much fun playing the spurned wife since the Marcall case," Laura replied.

"And we seem to have emerged no worse for wear," Steele responded with a small laugh. "How do you suppose we escaped the notice of Sonny's compatriots?"

"Not so fast, Steele," a man called out from the front porch of Bradford's house, pulling back the hammer on a Magnum revolver.

"Laura, look out," Steele called, tackling the man below the knees and sending him flailing off the side of the porch.

Laura grabbed the gun as it hit the ground, training it on the man as Steele scanned the surroundings for other threats. In an instant, Agent LaBue and several of his men moved in from the adjacent property, carrying high powered rifles as they entered the Bradford property to search for other gunmen.

Laura surrendered the revolver to the closest agent. Looking at Steele she said, "Now we need them more than they need us."

CUT TO:

* * *

Several days later, Remington Steele stood behind his desk on the eleventh floor of the Century Plaza Towers in Los Angeles, removing the contents from a small cardboard box that had arrived in the mail moments earlier.

Laura entered from the adjoining office. "A present?" she asked.

"A Mardi Gras present, from Cindy Bourque," Steele replied. "She was sorry we had to cut our trip short and head back to Los Angeles before the end of the carnival season."

"We only missed the final day," Laura said, approaching the desk as Steele removed several handfuls of colorful plastic beads.

"Apparently, it's the most momentous," Steele said, placing a strand of red beads over Laura's head.

"I find that hard to believe," Laura replied, rummaging through the box. "But it is sweet of her to think of us."

"Catch," Steele called out, tossing a strand of gold beads in the air as Mildred Krebs entered his office from the reception area. Mildred made an awkward grab for the trinket while balancing a folder in her left hand.

"Thanks, Mildred," Laura said, accepting the folder.

"More beads, Mildred?" Steele asked.

"I think I've lost the carnival spirit, boss," Mildred replied, heading back to her desk. "Maybe next year." Mildred closed the door behind her.

"What's that?" Steele asked, gesturing to the folder.

"A final report on the case," Laura said, joining him behind the desk. "A federal grand jury returned a quick indictment of multiple counts of racketeering for a ring of New Orleans mobsters."

"And Sonny Bradford?"

"Cooperating with the authorities to explain the whole scheme. It seems the Monte Carlo partnership was a group of wealthy investors, organized crime figures and state officials conspiring to bring casino gambling to New Orleans. The 'investments' were intended to grease the wheels of the state lawmaking process."

"Bribes," Steele said.

"Martin and Leslie were heroes. They exposed the whole rotten enterprise."

"I imagine the FBI will provide Sonny Bradford with a brand new identity in exchange for his troubles," Steele said.

"I suspect so," Laura replied.

Steele reached the bottom of the box Mardi Gras trinkets and removed two sequined masks, one black, one white. He handed them to Laura with a smile.

"And you, Mr. Steele," Laura said, running a hand over his tie. "Are you crestfallen to bid adieu to William Frawley, the 18th Duke of Bridgewater? He never did get to be king."

Steele wrapped his arms around Laura and gave her a light kiss on the cheek. "The Duke's opted for a quieter life now. With the carnival intrigue behind him, he's got more time to concentrate on the things that are truly important."

"And what would that be?" Laura asked, placing her hands around the back of his neck and drawing him close for soft kiss.

"That's easy," Steele said, returning the kiss and breaking into a mischievous smile. "The Duke needs a new helicopter for his private island."

FREEZE FRAME

END ACT FOUR


End file.
